


just in case

by coffeesuperhero



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Phil Coulson Saying Words He Probably Wouldn't Say, Ridiculous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-02
Updated: 2012-05-02
Packaged: 2017-11-04 17:26:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/396337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeesuperhero/pseuds/coffeesuperhero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint makes some creative additions to Tony Stark's notecards before his infamous press conference at the end of <i>Iron Man</i>. Phil is less than amused, but it all works out in the end, because as usual, Phil has a plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	just in case

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimers** : Not for profit, just for fun. All characters property of Marvel/various subsidiaries.  
>  **A/N** : This is set at the end of Iron Man, working off the premise that Clint was ~totally there~ with Phil, just hanging out on a rooftop out of sight. Thanks to Sabinelagrande for being my very favorite enabler.

“Dammit, Barton,” Phil says, as soon as he steps into their hotel room after a long day of dealing with the aftermath of Stark's press conference. “He'll never go for it, you said. Make him some notecards, you said. I'll do it, you said.” 

Clint's just sitting on the bed, a box of Chinese food in one hand and chopsticks in the other, grinning at him. “How'd you like my clever additions to Stark's notecards, Coulson?” 

“'The truth is... titties,'” Phil quotes, his lips curling in disapproval, and Clint barely manages to stay on the bed, he's laughing so hard. The look on Phil's face is absolutely priceless, and Clint regrets nothing about his brief foray into the world of creative writing. Stark was never going to go for the cover story, anyway, Phil knows it, he knows it, and Stark knew it, long before he read Clint's notations. “Very mature, Barton.” 

“Oh Christ,” Clint laughs, shoving his chopsticks into the container of food so he can wipe tears away from his eyes. “Sitwell bet me fifty bucks that I could never get you to say that word.”

“Congratulations on your winnings,” Phil says dryly, tugging off his suit jacket and laying it carefully on the back of the chair by the door. He looks hopefully at the bag of food sitting next to Clint on the bed, and Clint holds it up for his inspection. 

“Beef and broccoli, extra spicy, two eggrolls and a crab rangoon,” Clint says, tossing Phil a pair of chopsticks. “Do I know you, or do I know you? There's more sauce, too, if you want.” 

“Thanks, but between you and Stark, I think I'm at my limit on sauciness for today,” Phil replies, and Clint fakes a hurt look. 

“I keep your life interesting,” Clint says, sliding over so that Phil can sit on the bed to eat, just in case he feels like it, since the table is currently loaded up with their gear and Clint's bow and quiver. Certainly Clint didn't leave any of that equipment there on purpose so that Phil would have to sit here next to him. Certainly not. 

“Yes, Barton, being a secret agent is the world's dullest job, what would I do without you here to add spice to my otherwise boring and uneventful existence, which just in the last twenty-four hours has included two men fighting to the death in flying metal suits, not that I'm keeping score,” Phil deadpans, all the while unpacking his food. 

“Well, so far today I have made you say, 'titties,' Coulson, so that's one for my side of the scoreboard.” 

Phil chews thoughtfully on some broccoli. “I suppose so,” he agrees, swinging his legs up onto the bed. “Anyway, the Director is unconcerned about the Stark problem, which is officially his problem, for now.” 

“Yeah, until it's ours again,” Clint snorts, and Phil just shrugs and bites into an eggroll. “Wheels up when, exactly?” 

“Four hours from now,” Phil tells him. “Get some sleep, if you want.” 

“Nah,” Clint says, but he yawns and stretches anyway, and he's sure it's just his imagination making him think that Phil's eyes might have followed the hem of his shirt while he stretched, but just in case, he doesn't bother to fix his shirt where it's come untucked. “I'll sleep on the plane. You want the bed? I can get up.” 

“No, I have some paperwork to do,” Phil begins, and Clint groans and flops back on the bed. “What?” 

Clint nudges Phil's leg with his foot. “Just once, Coulson, just once, leave the sitreps 'til we get back in.” 

“If we do them now, the events are more--” 

“Accurately reported and vividly detailed, I know, I know,” Clint says. 

“Did you have a better idea?” 

Clint almost says something _untoward_ , but thinks better of it and picks up the tv remote instead. “We could see what's on,” he suggests, fairly certain that Phil's going to veto this proposition, but for the second time tonight, Phil Coulson surprises him. 

“Okay,” he agrees, and Clint turns the television on before Phil can change his mind. 

He sits up and flips through channels while Phil finishes up his dinner. Eventually, they end up on some cable network show where bratty kids get a lesson in manners and maturity from a string of British ladies. It's like _Mary Poppins_ only without the singing and dancing and heartwarming family moments, so basically, it resembles _Mary Poppins_ only in that it has nannies and schoolkids. 

They watch the show for about ten minutes before Clint goes to change the channel, but Phil's hand snakes out, lightning fast, and grabs his wrist to stop him. 

“What are you doing?” Phil asks, his fingers encircling Clint's wrist for just another moment before he lets go. 

Clint gestures at the screen. “I'm turning this shit off, there has to be a Law & Order marathon on somewhere, I think that's like, a _law_.” 

“You can't change this,” Phil says, and Clint just stares at him. 

“Phil Coulson. Phil Fucking Coulson, you are fucking with me, right? You're fucking with me, because I made you say 'titties,' and now you're trying to convince me that you're actually interested in, god, what even is this?”

“Supernanny,” Phil supplies, and Clint waves his hand dismissively. 

“Whatever,” he says, slumping down onto the bed, his back more or less against the wall, his shoulder pressed companionably against Phil's. “Seriously, though?” 

“I'm enjoying it,” Phil tells him, shrugging his shoulders, the motion pushing Clint a little further down into the pillows. His cheek is now resting against Phil's arm, and if Phil moves a few inches his head will be practically in Phil's lap, or close enough for government work, at least, and that would make for a far more interesting evening, certainly, than getting Phil to say words he normally wouldn't. 

“This is turning out to be a very strange mission,” Clint says, fingers idly tapping Phil's thigh, just to see how much he can get away with before Phil tells him to get out of his space, already. 

Phil glances down at him, amused, but if he's concerned about the proximity of Clint's hand to his dick, he doesn't say a word, so Clint leaves his hand where it is, fingers splayed out on Phil's thigh, just in case maybe Phil is as interested as he is to see where this is going, if anywhere. “How do you mean?” 

Clint ticks points off on the hand which is not currently occupied with its experiment re: Phil's leg. “First, you said the word 'titties.' Granted, I kind of made you say it, but the fact remains, partner, you said it. Second, you just prevented me from changing the channel because you are actually, seriously invested in something called _Supernanny_.” He drops his hand back onto the bed. “Honestly, Phil, what's coming at me next?” 

Phil looks at him curiously for about thirty seconds, then grabs the remote, switches off the television, leans down, and kisses him. 

It's a bigger surprise than either of the other two things put together, but it's also a _better_ surprise, because it turns out that Clint can add kissing to his mental list of Things Phil Coulson Is Extremely Fucking Good At, and this may be entirely new information but it's certainly not unwelcome, so he gives it his full and undivided attention, reaching up to slide his hand across Phil's cheek and around to cup the back of his head. Phil's hands are doing some experiments of their own re: the buttons of Clint's shirt, and he can't let Phil do all the work, so he sets out to undo Phil's tie, his fingers unraveling Phil's immaculately tied half-Windsor, which he only knows the name for because Phil is so serious about things like ties and lapels and buttons on suit jackets that he once gave Clint a two-hour lecture on all of it while they were on a drive back to HQ after a mission. 

Clint had tried to listen, because he likes listening to Phil, even when he talks about boring shit like suits, but really the only thing Clint has ever cared about with regards to Phil's suits is that Phil is always _wearing them_ instead of _not_ wearing them, or, as Clint has always been curious about, letting Clint take them off of him. It occurs to him, as he's undoing Phil's trousers, that this evening is (finally) going to end with him fucking his partner, and he is totally, completely cool with that. 

He's even cooler with it once they're finally mostly naked and Phil's hand is pumping his dick, which, _jesus god_ , is there anything Phil doesn't do like a pro, and he has absolutely no wish for Phil to stop doing what he's doing, but he has to make him take a break for a few minutes, because he's finally got Phil's pants off and he is on a goddamn mission to suck Phil's dick until he comes, because if there is one thing Clint has _really_ always wanted to hear Phil Coulson say, it's his name, just like that. 

It is every bit as satisfying as he thought it would be. 

“You didn't have a bet with Sitwell about this, did you,” Phil asks him afterward, both of them lying side by side on the bed, naked and sweaty. 

“No, but I think some of the junior agents were laying odds last month,” Clint tells him, laughing. “I am not the textbook entry on subtlety with this stuff, apparently.” 

“No,” Phil agrees, reaching out to trace the curve of Clint's bicep, “but there are several other entries that I think you might be more suited for.” 

“Pain in the ass?” Clint suggests, and Phil shrugs. “Damn good kisser? Excellent fucking lay?” 

“Like I said, there were several possibilities,” Phil says, stifling a yawn. “You do realize that this is going to necessitate some paperwork.” 

Clint bumps Phil with his elbow. “Figures.” He rolls over onto his side. “I bet you know the form numbers, don't you?” 

Phil is quiet for a minute, but just as Clint is about to change the subject, he says, “I-42, 57, and 89, all to be filled out in triplicate, signed by the appropriate parties, and filed within 48 hours of,” he waves his hand between them, “a sexual encounter.” 

Clint shakes his head. “I would say that you're bluffing, but I know if I go in tomorrow and look up those forms, you'll be right.” 

“It's possible that I looked them up recently,” Phil says carefully, and Clint's eyes widen in surprise. 

“What, for me?” 

“Who else?” 

“Fucking nobody, I hope,” Clint admits, and Phil smiles at him. “I do pretty well with targets, Coulson, but I really did not see any of this coming. Hoped it would, yeah, but otherwise, no.” 

“Don't feel bad, Barton. I'm much closer to the textbook entry on subtlety than you are.” 

Clint glances over at the digital clock on the bedside table, leaning into Phil as he does it. "I have some unsubtle ideas for what we could do with the next hour," he says, and much later, after they board the plane, Phil passes him a folder labeled, _Just in Case_ , which turns out to contain three copies each of forms I-42, 57, and 89, all of them already bearing Phil's neat, tidy signature as well as the date. He shakes his head and laughs, then pulls out a pen and scrawls his own name underneath Phil's on every page. 

"One of these days, Phil, I'm gonna be at least half a step ahead of you," Clint says, passing the forms back over. 

"Well, Barton, you did get me to say, 'titties'," Phil says, just as Clint takes a drink of water, which he promptly spits right back into the bottle. "So I'd say the odds are in your favor."


End file.
